


The Greatest Thing You'll Ever Learn

by emmram



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M, Series 1, background Constagnan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 11:15:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3690150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmram/pseuds/emmram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The three of them have spent so long together in such insular companionship that most other Musketeers have given up trying to be anything more than their colleagues, assuming that the door to their confidences has long since been rusted shut. Aramis has been quite happy to see this arrangement honoured all these years—until now, but if there’s anybody who would take a sword to a padlock rather than wait for a key, Aramis supposes it would be d’Artagnan.”</p><p>Aramis/d’Artagnan, with some background Constance/d’Artagnan and Anne/Aramis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Greatest Thing You'll Ever Learn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [breathtaken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/gifts).



> Warnings: Series 1 spoilers. Very mild cursing. One sexual situation, which is not very explicit.

**_The Greatest Thing You’ll Ever Learn_ **

For the first few months after d’Artagnan barrels into their lives, there’s a silent agreement between Athos, Porthos, and Aramis to maintain a strict policy of tolerance. d’Artagnan, bless him, is an enthusiastic companion, full of questions and laughter and curiously strong opinions about root vegetables, but the three of them have spent so long together in such insular companionship that most other Musketeers have given up trying to be anything more than their colleagues, assuming that the door to their confidences has long since been rusted shut. Aramis has been quite happy to see this arrangement honoured all these years—until now, but if there’s anybody who would take a sword to a padlock rather than wait for a key, Aramis supposes it would be d’Artagnan.

If Aramis feels sometimes uncharitably about d’Artagnan—Athos’ saviour or no—training with them, trailing along on their missions and accompanying them absolutely everywhere, both Porthos and Athos seem to have rather quickly accepted it as another unavoidable fact of life, like Serge’s stews being inedible or Treville’s increasingly despairing lectures. Athos appears to be pouring his heart and soul into making d’Artagnan into a better swordsman with the single-mindedness that he used to apply to seeing the bottom of a wine-bottle, and Aramis has often seen Porthos sitting with the lad at the mess table during the late hours of the evening, hay tangled in their hair, talking animatedly.

“He has nobody else to turn to here,” Porthos tells him, shrugging. “He’s a nice enough lad, and he could be good, Aramis. A really good soldier. An’ not just that—he could be good for _all_ of us.”

Yes, he could, Aramis thinks. And isn’t that just the saddest thing?

It’s tempting to forget just how new and… _raw_ d’Artagnan is, particularly on the nights when the wine is flowing and their spirits are flying high (or in Athos’ case, skidding somewhere slightly above total melancholy). d’Artagnan attacks his drink with much the same intensity that he would show while twirling and lunging at a perceived weak point in Athos’ defence—and the results are much the same, to everybody’s endless delight: him on his rear on the ground, insisting with somewhat misplaced optimism that he would fare better in the next round. It makes Porthos laugh until tears are flowing from his eyes and Athos crack a rare smile, and for that, at least, Aramis is grateful.

It’s on one such night that Aramis takes his leave early, claiming urgent work that needed to be done before daybreak. Athos just shakes his head, and Porthos guffaws, says, “It’s a cold night, Aramis—keep warm!”

“In the arms of which unfortunate woman tonight, Aramis?” d’Artagnan asks, laughingly.

This is followed by dead silence. Both Athos and Porthos stare at d’Artagnan with looks of such withering disapproval that, even half-drunk, d’Artagnan’s smile slips away, and he flushes a bright red. “I didn’t mean any—” he stammers. “I shouldn’t have overstepped—I’m sorry, it was, uh—I think, uh. I think I’ll leave now.” He sets his cup down, searches his pockets for money, seems to realise with a sort of sobering despair that he has never paid for his drinks for as long as he has known them, then leaves, stammering yet more awkward apologies.

Athos and Porthos turn their attention back to their drinks, the mood far more subdued, and Aramis sighs. So much for d’Artagnan belonging.

After that incident, d’Artagnan appears to make a conscious effort to spend less time in their company while not training: Aramis spots him sometimes fighting with the other Musketeers, doing various odd jobs that would usually be assigned to a fledgling recruit, and other times sitting at the mess table, staring into space, consumed by the sort of melancholy that Aramis would’ve scoffed at on anybody else as young as d’Artagnan. Most worryingly, Aramis never seems to catch him eating: while he had the occasional meal on their dime before, he doesn’t so much as touch a glass of water in their presence, and it is a wonder that he isn’t wasting away.

The thought preoccupies Aramis more than it probably should. He has seen the obvious attraction that d’Artagnan and Madame Bonacieux have for each other— _affection_ , our young upright Gascon would insist—and he can imagine d’Artagnan maybe having a meal or two at the Bonacieux household. But d’Artagnan’s is a pride that is easily wounded—even now, he is licking at scabbed-over scars—and Aramis doesn’t think d’Artagnan would eat frequently at his famously miserly landlord’s house.

His curiosity is piqued enough (he would’ve said that he is merely being a dedicated student of human behaviour, but Porthos has long since laughed such ridiculous notions out of him) that he follows d’Artagnan one afternoon. d’Artagnan, to his surprise, takes a long, circuitous route to the back of the Palace kitchens. One of the kitchen boys is waiting outside, nervously holding what appears to be a fresh baguette and a hunk of cheese wrapped in linen; as Aramis watches from a safe distance, d’Artagnan takes the bundle from the boy, and kisses him on the lips.

Aramis turns away and flattens himself against the wall, inexplicably blushing, like he’s the impetuous nineteen year old with his head in the clouds. He almost misses d’Artagnan walking away, smiling to himself, oblivious to the world around him.

 _Well then_ , Aramis thinks. _That was interesting_.

* * *

 

The Queen’s crucifix is a warm weight around Aramis’ neck that leaves him feeling paradoxically buoyant. Even Porthos’ frequently disapproving looks can’t prevent Aramis from smiling and tipping his hat at random passers-by as they escort d’Artagnan back to the garrison after Vadim’s death.

“Well, my friends,” Aramis says as they dismount, “It is time we report yet another successful mission to the Captain. I’m sure that d’Artagnan—”

“—would benefit from your immediate ministrations in the infirmary,” Athos interrupts smoothly. “Porthos and I will take care of the report.”

Aramis blinks, looks at d’Artagnan, seeing the blood at his hairline, the bruise snaking down his forehead, the exhausted slump of his shoulders, and the soot and grime that covers every inch of his skin as though for the first time.

d’Artagnan squawks in protest. “Athos, I’m _fine_ —”

Athos ignores him completely. “Aramis?”

“Of course.” He leads the way to the garrison’s infirmary, d’Artagnan following him sullenly but without further protest. Aramis sits him down on the nearest bed and reaches for a bucket of water.

“I’m fine,” d’Artagnan says, without much conviction.

“Of course you are,” Aramis says, as he soaks a piece of cloth, then wrings it of excess water.

d’Artagnan huffs and moves away when Aramis reaches for his forehead with the wet cloth. “You don’t have to patronise me, you know,” he says. “I’m not a child.”

Aramis bites down with great effort on the _your behaviour is telling me otherwise_ on the tip of his tongue. d’Artagnan has taken to belligerence and a brittle sarcasm these days with great relish, as though to erase forever the memories of the time he had thrown all of himself and his bare heart into their companionship like a lost little boy. The last thing Aramis wants is to antagonise him further.

“I did not mean to, my friend,” he says. “I’m merely concerned for your well-being, and it is my duty as the one with the most experience with battlefield medicine to tend to a fellow soldier’s wounds.” He reaches with the cloth again. “May I?”

d’Artagnan, seemingly mollified, tilts his head for inspection.

Aramis finds nothing more than an already-scabbing over wound on the scalp requiring no stitches, a few bruises, and a pair of abraded wrists. He tells d’Artagnan as such while rubbing a cool salve on his wrists, and the lad rolls his eyes. “I _told_ you,” he says. “I’m fine.”

“Indeed.” Aramis looks up quickly before returning his attention to d’Artagnan’s wrists. “However—and this is my professional opinion, of course—you appear to be thinner than when you first arrived in Paris. A soldier’s training requires a soldier’s sustenance—”

“I eat,” d’Artagnan says shortly.

“Yes, but you hardly do so with us or at the garrison. You’ll forgive me if I wonder where—”

“I’m managing,” d’Artagnan says. “I receive an income from my farm, after all.”

Aramis chances another look at d’Artagnan’s face, remembers those full lips kissing that kitchen boy’s, and his hand instinctively clamps around d’Artagnan’s wrist, harder than he’d intended. The boy hisses.

“Yes, managing,” Aramis says, “I’m sure.”

“Aramis, what—”

He jumps to his feet, slaps his slick hands against his thighs with a cheer he hopes doesn’t appear too false. “Even so, you _must_ dine with us in the tavern tonight, in celebration of your first successful mission with us. You have saved the King from a great humiliation, d’Artagnan, and that merits at least a night’s worth of revelry.”

d’Artagnan blinks. After a long moment, he says, “all right,” and Aramis beams.

* * *

 

Aramis steps out of Porthos’ room after changing his bandages, wiping his hands on a cloth, when d’Artagnan steps out of the shadows and hisses, “Aramis!”

Aramis jumps about three feet in the air and lets out a sound that’s definitely _not_ a squawk. “d’Artagnan?”

d’Artagnan takes his hand and drags him down the corridor and into his own room. He closes the door behind him and says, a little breathlessly, “You have to teach me.”

Aramis raises an eyebrow. d’Artagnan’s chest is heaving with what seems to be fearful nervousness, and there’s sweat clinging his hair to his forehead and beading on his upper lip. Aramis clenches his fists and hides them behind his back, trying not to sweat too. “Much as I first appreciated your flair for dramatic entrances, d’Artagnan,” he says, trying to keep his voice flat and Athos-dry, “this is just inexplicable. What exactly do you think you’re going to—”

“Stitching,” d’Artagnan says hastily. “Treating wounds. What you said that day—battlefield medicine. I mean,” he barrels on as Aramis blinks at him, “what if something happens to you? Somebody else’s got to know how to stitch up a sword wound or pull a bullet out here.”

“Much as I would like to pretend that I am that indispensable,” Aramis says, “Athos and Porthos are pretty competent at these things themselves. As are most of the soldiers here.” He pauses, smiles to himself. “Just don’t listen to Boucher.”

“Old Boucher? With that terrible scar on his chest?” A moment later, a look of horrified amazement settles on d’Artagnan’s face. “Athos really did that?”

“Well, to be fair, Athos _was_ pretty drunk when he was stitching Boucher up.” Realising that that clarification is doing nothing to assuage d’Artagnan’s horror, Aramis changes the subject. “It is good that you have approached me, d’Artagnan; you ought to know at least the basics.”

d’Artagnan settles on the bed next to Aramis with all the eagerness of a first-time student, and Aramis can’t help but feel pleased. He opens his toolkit and splays its contents over the covers. “Do you have any experience with mending clothes, d’Artagnan?”

“A little. I mean—I used to do it now and then, but not very well, and—” d’Artagnan’s eyes brighten. “I _am_ pretty skilled at carpentry, though: maybe I’ll be better wielding a scalpel?”

Aramis carefully nudges his tools towards his side of the bed. “Your first lesson, young d’Artagnan,” he says, “is that there are considerable differences between the human body and a block of wood, and that under no circumstances is a surgeon to treat both in the same manner.” He picks up his needle and thread with some reluctance—the needle is delicate and prone to damage in the hands of an amateur, and the silk thread is one of those things that is both desperately needed and ridiculously expensive. However, d’Artagnan’s now looking at him with such unabashed pleading, the kind of hero worship that he’s seen usually directed towards Athos or Porthos, and he relents.

“We’ll start with you threading this needle,” he says, handing it over.

d’Artagnan gamely tries to thread a needle with a much smaller eye than he is used to; however, his hands are shaking, and he ends up piercing the pads of his fingers more often than not. “I’m sorry,” d’Artagnan says, despairingly, “I don’t know what’s wrong—”

“That’s quite all right.” Aramis stills d’Artagnan’s hands in his, guiding them to thread the needle again, “it’s the end of a really long day and you’re exhausted. We still have tomorrow to practice.”

d’Artagnan does it in the second try, Aramis’ hands still wrapped around his. He grins at him brightly, and Aramis feels warmth bloom in his chest.

Somehow, the night ends with an exhausted d’Artagnan curled up asleep on Aramis’ bed while Aramis contemplates how best he can crawl into Porthos’ bigger bed without the injured man pushing him off on the grounds of being ‘too fucking clingy’. He doesn’t arrive at a conclusion until daybreak, but all in all, Aramis thinks it’s been a fairly productive night.

* * *

 

It’s somehow raining even harder when Aramis returns to the garrison after burying Marsac. The practice yard is empty, but he sees d’Artagnan sitting under the awning of the stables, back against one of the broad wooden posts. Judging by his general appearance, it doesn’t seem like his choice of shelter is doing him any good.

Aramis hesitates for a minute at the stairs, then finally walks to the stables and settles down next to d’Artagnan, who acknowledges him with a nod. They sit in companionable silence for a while, and Aramis tries desperately not to _think_ —

“It was raining then, too, you know.”

Aramis frowns. “What?”

“The day my father died.” d’Artagnan shifts, as if trying to get comfortable. “It was raining heavily, and I asked him to stop until the weather cleared. That’s when—that’s when, uh. He was murdered.” He stares at his hands. “I keep thinking to myself about what would’ve happened if I hadn’t insisted we stop. I keep—thinking I ought to feel sad and guilty, especially when it rains. That it should… remind me of him, somehow. Remind me of how I’ve failed him. Instead… it only makes me angrier. All I want to do is fight. _Kill_.”

“d’Artagnan, you don’t have to—”

“Wait. This isn’t about me, really.” He takes a deep breath. “I just—you told me something important earlier today, about something that obviously greatly troubles you to think about, and I just. I wanted to say that I understand. Perhaps not in quite the same way as you, not even close, but it only seems fair that you know this now, too.”

Aramis places his hand over d’Artagnan’s and looks at him. d’Artagnan’s staring straight ahead, but his fingers curl until he’s holding back, and their linked hands feel like a point of impossibly intense heat in the midst of the chill rain. Aramis turns around and kisses d’Artagnan on the mouth.

d’Artagnan is startled for a moment, then responds, briefly, before Aramis breaks away and settles back in his former position, a little breathless, his heart pounding. He expects d’Artagnan to get up and leave, any moment now, but they both stay where they are until the rain stops, and d’Artagnan’s hand stays under Aramis’.

* * *

 

“I think you’re losing your touch,” d’Artagnan tells him with a cheeky smile as he watches Agnes leave one last time. Aramis turns back; in a different time, a different universe, he imagines d’Artagnan scampering away, red-faced and apologetic, after saying such a thing. Now, however, Aramis smiles at him, and Porthos laughs.

And when d’Artagnan pulls his horse level with Aramis’ to slap him on the back, well, Aramis is not struck by any particularly profound feeling, but he appreciates the gesture all the same.

* * *

 

The day after they’ve spirited the Comtesse de Larroque away to her exile, d’Artagnan enters the garrison in a mood so disproportionately good-natured that merely minutes into his sparring session with Athos, the latter is at Aramis’ door, demanding that d’Artagnan practise with him instead. “Deal with him,” Athos says, somewhat ominously, and steps aside to reveal a grinning d’Artagnan, who’s almost bouncing on his feet.

Aramis has barely said “All right,” before d’Artagnan sweeps into the room, and Athos leaves shaking his head. “d’Artagnan,” Aramis says, closing the door, “What—”

“I kissed Constance,” he says quickly. “I told her I love her, and we kissed, and—well.” He scratches the back of his neck, but that mark of shyness is belied by the sparkle in his eye.

Aramis supposes he shouldn’t be surprised; after all, they’d all seen this coming, and from the way Constance and d’Artagnan are together, he supposes it’s nothing short of a miracle that the whole of Paris doesn’t know. Still, he can’t help but feel a tiny flutter of inexplicable resentment at the back of his mind. “Tell me,” he says, watching d’Artagnan’s face, “was it any different from kissing the Palace kitchen boys?”

d’Artagnan’s eyes widen for a second, then, to Aramis’ surprise, he breaks into a grin that Aramis can only describe as, well, _wicked_. “Different, yeah,” he says. “But both felt really good.”

Aramis steps forward, kisses d’Artagnan. For a moment it concerns him that d’Artagnan’s height means that he has to tilt his face up to do so, but when d’Artagnan returns the kiss in full, lips moving sloppily over Aramis’ and his hands tangling in Aramis’ hair—well. A small height difference is the smallest thing that they’ve surmounted.

d’Artagnan’s the one who pushes Aramis back on the bed, but Aramis takes the initiative in unlacing his doublet and snaking a hand underneath d’Artagnan’s loose billowing shirt. He feels hot, burning almost, his heart pounding beneath a papery skin and prominent ribs. Aramis lifts the shirt above his head and tosses it aside, pressing his lips to the knob of d’Artagnan’s collarbone and trailing wet, cool kisses down his chest.

d’Artagnan chuckles breathlessly and pulls away for a moment. “Let me tell you,” he says, “your clothes are going to be a hell of a lot easier to get off than Constance’s bloody corset.”

Aramis has barely time to laugh at the absurdity of that statement before d’Artagnan captures his mouth in another kiss.

* * *

 

They don’t speak of what they did that day again, not after that fateful attempt to protect the Queen from the Cardinal’s assassins, or Constance’s kidnapping, or her tearful reunion with d’Artagnan, or even after d’Artagnan comes back from her house one last time, looking shattered.

They are, however, the only two left at the mess table that night, and several minutes pass in silence before Aramis takes d’Artagnan’s hand and presses a quick kiss to his fingers.

d’Artagnan doesn’t look at him, but he does finally smile.

**_Finis_ **


End file.
